


Shorthand

by liggytheauthoress



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Durincest, M/M, what even is this I have no idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:10:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liggytheauthoress/pseuds/liggytheauthoress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Kili was born, it was a long time before he started talking. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have anything to communicate - it was just that Fili always seemed to know exactly what baby brother was trying to say, and would promptly let their mother know what Kili wanted without the latter ever having to open his mouth."</p><p>Fili and Kili have always had their own special way of talking to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shorthand

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the following quote: "I am told that I talk in shorthand and then smudge it." J.R.R. Tolkien.

When Kili was born, it was a long time before he started talking. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have anything to communicate - it was just that Fili always seemed to know exactly what baby brother was trying to say, and would promptly let their mother know what Kili wanted without the latter ever having to open his mouth.

At the age of almost three, when he finally started talking, his first word was, unsurprisingly, “Feelee!” Fili had grinned so hard he thought his face would burst, and Dis laughed and picked Kili up and swung him around, telling him how proud she was.

Kili’s first sentence followed a week later. Fili was helping his mother in the kitchen when his little brother, sitting on the floor, stretched up his arms and stated, “Wanfeeholmee.”

Dis didn’t react, which confused Fili, because after the fuss made over Kili’s first word, surely his first sentence warranted even more excitement. As he bent down and lifted his little brother into his arms, he asked, “Mum, Kili’s just said a whole sentence.”

“That wasn’t a sentence, dear. It was just babbling,” Dis said.

“No it wasn’t! He said, ‘I want Fili to hold me,’ didn’t you hear him?”

As if to prove Fili’s point, Kili giggled and tugged at his hair, saying, “Gotsidefee.”

“There, see? He’s said another one.” Fili beamed at his brother with pride.

Dis shook her head, and Fili felt a surge of annoyance, because Kili had, quite clearly, said,  _I want to go outside, Fili,_ so why was their mother merely brushing it off and going back to her cooking?

Impatient, Kili repeated, “Gotsidefee,” and Fili had to smile and oblige him.

Over time, and without even realizing it, Fili began talking to his brother in the same idiosyncratic way (although to him, it was as intelligible as everything any of the grownups said). Instead of saying, “Don’t cry, Kili, it was just a nightmare,” when his brother awoke in the middle of the night, he would whisper, “Nocrykee, jusnimare.” On the rare occasions where he chided Kili for misbehaving (instead of partaking in whatever mischief his brother had started), he’d say, “Nokee, ulmake mangry.”  _No, Kili, you’ll make Mother angry_.

It troubled Dis - “How will Kili ever learn how to talk properly if his brother indulges him so?” she would say to Thorin whenever he visited - but she was hopeful they would grow out of it.

However, it seemed Kili was in no hurry to speak “properly” - after all, he could converse with Fili at leisure, and big brother was always there to translate what Mother couldn’t understand. It never occurred to him, or to Fili, that their way of communicating wasn’t what most would consider normal.

As they grew, though, they noticed that the other dwarf children would give them funny looks whenever they spoke to each other, or laugh whenever Kili tried to engage them in conversation. Fili had a vague idea of what the problem was, but Kili was completely perplexed as to why his brother was the only one who ever answered him.

When Kili turned ten, Dis realized that her boys were showing no signs of “growing out of it”. She sat them both down and explained, as gently as possible, that the way they talked was, well, unusual. “It’s time Kili learned how to speak normally,” she said firmly. “Fili, from now on you must talk to him properly; it’s the only way he’ll learn.”

For a while, it was hard. Kili got frustrated whenever Fili spoke to him, which often resulted in tears and yelling and running off into the woods to sulk until Fili came to fetch him home. “Wydonu takmemore?” he would shout.  _Why don’t you talk to me anymore?_

And Fili would sigh and hug his brother and answer, in regular speak, “Because Mother says we have to stop, Kili,” even though he wanted nothing more than to respond in the language he and his brother were used to using.

Eventually, Kili started talking normally. He said little at first, the words foreign and awkward on his tongue, and he often slipped back into what he and Fili came to call “brother-speak”, but as time went on, it became easier. By the time he was thirteen, he could communicate as well as anybody. If he missed their old way of talking, he never said.

Fili missed it. He missed being able to talk to Kili and have no one but his brother know what he was saying. It was the one thing in which he never had to share his little brother. He would see Kili talking to Dis or Thorin or one of the other dwarves, and he’d have to fight back the jealous urge to march over and wrap himself around Kili and start speaking to him in  _their_  language.

Still, Fili knew very well that Kili was most definitely  _his_ , and that made it a bit easier.

The years passed quickly, and after a while, brother-speak was all but forgotten. The brothers developed other ways of communicating privately - through looks, through body language, through sheer intuition so accurate it could easily be mistaken for mind-reading - so the need for their own language fell away. Every once in a while, it would cross Fili’s mind, but as no more than a childhood memory.

When Kili was twenty and Fili twenty-five, they came to the mutual conclusion that what they felt for one another was definitely more than could be considered familial love, and suddenly, they had a use for their language again. Brother-speak was used to say all the things to one another that they couldn’t risk others hearing and understanding. They didn’t use it often, since it would attract unwanted curiosity, but a few whispered words throughout the day were enough.

It was only a matter of time before people found out, though. They sat meekly side-by-side, hands clasped beneath the dining table, as Thorin and their mother argued it out. Thorin ranted about how his nephews couldn’t produce heirs this way (which was rather a waste of breath, Fili though, since neither he nor Kili had any interest in any sort of carnal relationship, with each other or anybody else), but Dis had put her foot down, informing her brother that she valued her sons’ happiness above their lineage, and that if he was so desperate for an heir he could damn well go and produce one himself, and that was the end of it.

With everything in the open, the necessity of having a method of communication that no one else could understand once again disappeared. They still slipped into it from time to time, when one of them was sick or injured and in need of comfort, but it was a rare occurrence.

Years passed, then decades, and the rare occasions when they used brother-speak grew farther and farther apart, but neither brother noticed. Sometimes they would mention it when they were talking about their early childhoods, as a fond reminiscence, but nothing more.

When Thorin asked them to accompany on his quest to reclaim Erebor, they leaped at the chance. For them, it marked their ascent into adulthood, the chance to prove they deserved the name of Durin. In the days before they left, they spent hours talking about what it would be like, what adventures they would have, and how proud they would make their family.

Childhood was behind them now, they agreed.

And then the company was captured by the trolls, and suddenly the brothers were faced with the very real possibility of losing each other forever.

The second they were free, Kili virtually threw himself onto his brother, asking frantically, “Arhurt? Ahright?”  _Are you hurt? Are you all right?_

Without even thinking about it, Fili answered, “Mkaykee. Mahright.”  _I’m okay, Kili. I’m all right._

A second later they both realized what they’d just said, and they looked at each other in surprise. A small smile broke across Kili’s face, one that Fili instantly mirrored. Fili tangled his fingers in his brother’s hair and pressed their foreheads together, and they shared a light exhale of relieved laughter.

Fili was a little surprised at how naturally the words had come, after not using the language for so very long. They chalked it up to nerves and adrenaline, to the need to reassure one another that they were both there and safe and whole, and said nothing more about it.

He didn’t really expect it to happen again, but after their narrow escape from the wargs he was anxious and jumpy, and that night in their shared bed in Rivendell, he pulled Kili close and murmured, “Keescaredmeday. Moslossyu.”  _Kili, you scared me today. I almost lost you._

“Nosorry.”  _I know. I’m sorry._

“Missme mocafill.”  _Promise me you’ll be more careful._

“Ahmiss.”  _I promise._

After that, they found words and phrases in brother-speak slipping into their conversations more and more. It earned them curious glances from the rest of the company, but they couldn’t bring themselves to care. Privacy was hard to come by on the road, and this was one way they could achieve a few moments of intimacy.

The night on the mountain, after the thunder battle, Kili refused to speak in anything but their language. He and Fili curled up together at the back of the cave, and Kili sounded like a child again as he whispered, “Thohadied.”  _I thought you had died._

Fili stroked his hair. “Mriheerkee. Sahright.” _I’m right here, Kili. It’s all right._

“Cuhdinquest. Scaresmuch.”  _We could die on this quest. That scares me so much._

“Scaresmtoo, librtha.”  _It scares me, too, little brother._ “Buhtectyu. Waystectyu.”  _But I’ll protect you. I’ll always protect you._

Kili looked up at him with big, trusting eyes and said solemnly, “Missme ifdie digethr.”  _Promise me that if we die, we die together._

Fili pressed a kiss to his brother’s lips and murmured against his mouth, “Ahmiss.”

It was a promise he kept.

They fought valiantly at the end, defending their fallen uncle with everything they had, but in the end, that wasn’t enough.

Kili fell first, pierced by one arrow, then several. Fili was at his side instantly, standing over him and destroying anyone who came near. He knew baby brother wasn’t going to pull through, not this time, so it was almost a relief when a spear ripped through Fili’s side.

He gathered Kili close to him and stroked his hair out of his face. Kili shuddered and gasped, “Ihurss.”  _It hurts._

“Nobrtha. Versoon.”  _I know, brother. It will be over soon._

Kili smiled up at him and reached up to touch his face. “Wihme?”  _You’ll be with me?_

Fili smiled back and brushed his lips against Kili’s. “Ways.”  _Always_.

Kili rested his head against his brother’s chest and whispered, voice barely audible, “Luhyufee.”  _I love you, Fili._

And then his eyes slid closed, and his chest stopped rising and falling, and Fili couldn’t stop the tears from falling. But he knew he would soon be joining his brother, and that made it easier to bear.

Fili died with Kili in his arms, using his last breath to murmur against his brother’s skin, “Luhyukee.”

_I love you, Kili._

**Author's Note:**

> Idioglossia - an idiosyncratic language invented and spoken by only one person or very few people. Most often, idioglossia refers to the "private languages" of young children.


End file.
